Tina McKenzie wanted, above anything, to be a successful novelist. By successful, of course, she meant rich -- but she also longed to have her fiction taken seriously. She wanted to be interviewed on magazines and talk shows, and have people tell her that her books 'spoke' to them or kept them on the edge of their seats. She'd had some luck with short stories and technical 'how to' articles for low end publications, and she'd written a few soft-core porn bits of fluff for women's magazines -- enough to supplement her salary as 'Gal Friday' for Galante Gems to afford a half-decent apartment and even a (used) car. What she really wanted to write, though, was crime fiction -- gritty stuff with just enough sex to keep it interesting. She'd been reading mysteries and detective fiction since she was a little girl, so she figured she'd have no problem writing the kind of stuff she loved to read.

She'd finished her first draft of her masterpiece and sent off copies to all the contacts she'd made in the business, plus the standard publishing houses, but all she'd gotten was rejection after rejection -- except for the offer to turn it into a serial if she changed the heroine's name and added a lot more handcuffs and leather. "Not Realistic" was a repeated criticism for those who bothered responding with anything other than a 'file this in the trash form letter'.

After she'd made confetti after a few of the aforementioned communiques and flung them out over her balcony (fire escape), she started thinking ... and decided that maybe writing what you know wasn't such a bad idea after all. She worked for a gem broker - what better place to have the robbery in her novel? And she'd already found out that Mr. Galante, Sr. had written the code for the alarm in the cover of the little black book he kept in his jacket. That was a great place, she thought, to start ....

Tina has spent the last six months finding out everything she can about the boss' business -- not the stuff about invoicing or suppliers, but rather looking for weaknesses that might be exploited by an enterprising criminal. She even flirted with the boss' son, flattering him outrageously and encouraging his ogling and pinches, to glean a few more details. In the evenings, she 'cased' the joint and chatted up the regulars in the area, and revised her book with all the reality she could come up with, figuring to change the names and particulars later.

Little did she think that someone other than a would-be writer of fiction might agree with her that Galante Gems would be the perfect setup -- someone whose interest was anything BUT fictional.

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Looking for someone to play the robber for this idea. Ideally, this would be set in the 1980's (or a bit earlier) with a bad detective, noir-ish feel -- over the top, and not overly concerned with the minutia of how exactly the robbery is carried out.

The idea I had is that the real robber would wonder why Miss McKenzie is doing so much snooping and break in to her apartment where he finds her 'manuscript'. She comes home early and catches him in the act, and he decides to blackmail her into both keeping quiet and helping with the heist by taking it with him and telling her that he'll use it to show the police that she planned the heist if she gets caught.

I also had in mind that the jewel broker shop was mostly a front for the mob, who won't take kindly to being robbed or in having one of their employees betraying them.

Despite the theme, I would not be looking for non-con with this - more a 'gentleman-rogue' type who would be ruthless in pursuit of riches but who takes no pleasure in hurting others ... unless they've hurt him first, at least.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- A LAST KISS GOODNIGHT --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

an assassin and an FBI agent become entangled when they both go after the same target

A Last Kiss Good Night

Calley Nikta wasn’t her name, but it worked well enough. A play on the Greek, it summed up how she’d gotten her start in the business, and since her business was helping certain people find that great good night that everyone goes into eventually a little early it seemed apt enough.

It wasn’t as if she used it that much anyway. Fake names, fake ids, fake stories – they were all her tools, and she used names as interchangeably as she did weapons. Her real name was long gone, gone up in flames with her parents and the remnants of as much of a normal life as they could offer. She heard it only in her dreams of those days, and from those ghostly lips of memory it sounded far less real than any of the monikers she changed more frequently than her hairstyle.

She’d been fourteen when she called the number her father had given her as a last resort, the smell of gasoline and smoke still acrid in her nostrils and her clothes soaked through with icy rain, dirt, and stained with refuse from her escape. Her parents’ bodies had still been in the county morgue when Andre Markov had agreed to take her in, and outlined the terms of what he expected to get in return.

Ten years later, she’d gone her own way, no hard feelings, no strings attached. It had been business, and she’d gotten what she needed – and she supposed that he had as well. Hell, she’d even worked for him a couple of times and delivered. But like all rats, Andre hadn’t been content with leaving well enough alone. Maybe he’d been in a spot where he needed a card to play, or maybe he’d just been pissed that she didn’t need him anymore – but whatever the reason, he’d opened his mouth and started talking. She’d always known one day that she’d get to kill him … and this was going to be one of the rare ones that she actually enjoyed.

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It had taken the better part of three months to set up the scam, but considering that she was getting paid for something she would have otherwise been doing off the clock, Calley could hardly complain. It was funny, she thought, how sex and money could make even a paranoid son-of-a-bitch like Andre ignore the little voice in the back of their head that whispered caution.

Luck had paid a part in it - she wouldn't deny that if she talked about her business, which she didn't. When she was offered a contract on David McFaddan, an Armani-wearing lowlife who specialized in supplying 'exotic' and usually underage girls to the international prostitution market, she saw her chance. Since she used to work for Markov, it hadn't been that hard - given his tastes, he'd done business with McFadden before, so she'd contacted them both in the guise of representing the other, and convinced them both that there was a deal on the table too profitable to refuse. That made it easy to get herself invited to their meeting, and she'd been brought to the meeting in style, riding in the back of McFaddan's limousine, sipping a glass of Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux.

The first guard, the one driving the car, she'd taken out under the nose of McFaddan and his two bodyguards, by the simple expedient method of giving him her glass of wine, plus a little something extra, as she pointed out the warehouse's two exits. A burst of gunfire and a carefully doctored recording (you could do wonders with digital these days) gave the guards the idea that Andre had double-crossed their boss, and she'd shot McFaddan and one of Andre's guards in the confusion. Unfortunately, McFaddan's guards were a more enthusiastic in their aim than accurate, and Andre had only been hit in the arm. This was messier than Calley liked, but when you try to take out two men who travel with armed guards who invariably know a thing or two about unarmed combat as well, AND try to arrange it so that they take the blame for killing each other, there was really no way to do it with finesse. The authorities would be suspicious if there wasn't a blood bath, and fortunately they'd been willing enough to provide.

Now, all there was to do was to hunt Andre down and finish things. All in all, it was almost the second-best outcome she had envisioned. He'd try to talk to her, because even though he knew her reputation, he'd never quite gotten it into his head that just because she had enjoyed the sex didn't mean that she liked him. He'd start feeling her out for a price, and waiting for the chance to grab the HK he favored as soon as he saw an opening. He never could stand the silence, and it would be fitting if the love of the sound of his own voice was what killed him ... with a little help from a couple of hollow-points.

Calley heard a whisper of sound off to her left, and, pistol in hand, she slid off to investigate, using the rows of crates and boxes as cover.

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Ideally looking for a policeman or similar agent of the law (or vigilante) who was after Andre Markov for his own reasons and gets curious about Markov's killer.

Calley is an assassin, but she chooses her targets and she has her own code. She sleeps easier if the men and women she kills are 'in the game', her code for people who buy and sell and play with other people's lives in one way or another.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- AN ACCIDENT OF FATE --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

Dresdenverse - winter court sidhe & mortal man

An Accident of FateRETIRED (vyttor)

Started with vyttor, moved to 'Retired' October 6, 2014 -- Incomplete

The limousine was ringed by flashing lights of red and blue, and two uniformed officers wearing safety vests and carrying flashlights directed passing motorists around the site. A nearby ambulance waited with an open door, a cart with a black body bag barely visible in the interior. A paramedic stood just just inside, writing on papers held by a clipboard. Another, with a yellow hood half-covering the cap, leaned half on the back of a police-car, talking quietly to a man in a long, black coat holding an umbrella against the rain.

It was twenty minutes before midnight.

A woman wearing a long black dress slit high on the hip emerged from the front of the squad car and walked determinedly over to the line of cars waiting their turn to go around the accident site. The plainclothes officer started after her, calling out a warning, but she ignored it and continued on to knock at the steamy windows of one of the cars, empty save for its driver.

Her high-heeled shoes splashed through the puddles, and she made no effort to stay dry. The rain, though it had lessened, glistened on her tanned skin and sleekly styled hair. She walked like someone who was used to having her own way, like old money, and she ignored the elements just as she did the protests of the officers.

"Excuse me," she said, with the trace of a smile as the driver lowered his window. "I have an appointment that I can't miss in the city. I'll give you a thousand dollars to drive me, if you can get me there by midnight."

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I'm looking for someone tough and athletic to play the part of the car's driver, who will find himself drawn into a world of supernatural intrigue and high living, where magic exists and creatures of legend mingle with mortals and strip away any surety that the world is as they've always believed.

The plot is open ended and negotiable - I do have something in mind, but the story can be tailored to the preferences of my writing partner. What I have in mind is something Dresden-ish, though without any of the characters of the Dresden-verse. The club would be along the lines of Zero, though smaller and used for more subtle purposes so that a human coming into it would be slowly introduced to its reality.

The ride to the club would be extended to include escorting the woman into the club and home again when her business is finished. At first, she would intend to make certain that her escort did not remember what had happened inside, but that part is left open, depending upon my writing partner's interests.

From the Ashes of Betrayal [Siobhan Cousland / Alistair after leaving Ferelden & the Gray Wardens

Siobhan Cousland stood on the deck of the Broken-Beak Gull, heedless of the salty spray that stung her face and eyes. In the distance, the looming cliffs of Kirkwall, half hidden by roiling fog and the misty rain that fell, broke the vision of gray waves against gray sky that had been before the vessel on its journey upon the Waking Sea.

The first two days, her stomach had clenched in knots as the waves had, or so it had seemed, hurled the ship from one breaker to the next, and she had been able to do little other than drag her body from the railing to the narrow bunk with the taste of bitter bile in her mouth and little sense of which way was up.

It had almost been better that way. The sickness had driven memory and thought from her, save for bits and pieces of dreams of the path she had traveled, from the sight of her father's blood painting the storeroom floor of the Cousland ancestral home, to seeing Daveth lying at her feet with Duncan's empty condolences pouring out like a dark mist even before his body had stopped twitching, to looking into the face of evil and hearing its song cojoling her to come to it, to join its beautiful darkness, to the glimpse she'd had of Loghain mac Tir's contorted, determined face as he shoved past her and drove his blade into the archdemon, to seeing the ugliness that lay beneath the illusion of beauty as the tainted power surged into him and bore him to the Maker's final judgment. The dreams had been with her since the Joining, in one form or another, but the new knowledge she possessed had stirred them like a stick taken to a hornet's nest.

She had not dreamed of him at all since he had departed, and each time her thoughts had strayed in that direction, she had found something to occupy herself into exhaustion. Since becoming a Gray Warden, she had learned discipline, and it had served her well. Since Ignacio's 'friendly warning' had been delivered to Soldier's Peak, it had been a struggle to keep her thoughts from straying, and now she could no longer allow herself the luxury of remaining behind fortified walls now that the moment of confrontation approached.

"I don't want anything do do with this place or any of you people ... ever. I swear it!"

Though the entire event had taken only minutes, it had seemed like a lifetime. She could hear the pounding of her heart, and feel the empty knot in her stomach, much in the same way she had when her father had given her to the Gray Wardens to save her life and to make justice possible. The echoes of other conversations swirled in her head, words of duty and responsibility that she had taken into herself and believed, made part of herself as surely as she had made him part of her in the woodsmoke scented shadows at the edge of her camp. She didn't remember what she had said, some protest as meaningless as a traitor's plea for mercy, but at his reply she felt something inside herself shatter and flutter away on the winds of the coming war.

"I had these dreams ... they don't matter now. Take care of yourself."

Anger burned away the pain, and she had embraced it. Through the battles, many a darkspawn had worn his face. She had sliced through the memories a hundred times, and she had thought it might have been enough.

----

When the letter had been delivered, she had gone first to Zevran. He had an instinct for people that she'd never quite mastered, and above all, he'd been the one who hadn't left when the blight was over. Wynne had departed with Shale, on some foolish request for the dwarven golem to become flesh again, Leliana had gone back chasing some cloud-fluffy vision of flowers without thorns and people who didn't use and kill each other over trivialities. Sten had no doubt delivered his answer to the Arishok, probably before he handed the best of Nan's cookie recipes to the Qunari bakers. Morrigan was probably off looking to start another blight so she could get a second chance at having her very own darkspawn-godling, and Oghren and Felsi were about to get married (if they didn't kill each other first). Zevran had stayed, and though he often went off on business of his own, he always seemed to make sure she knew where to find him should she need him.

Alistair's name had not passed between them in the intervening time between the Landsmeet and when she sought him out. He'd almost asked once, as they'd traveled to Denerim with their rag-tag army marching behind, but when she'd regarded him steadily over the glint of her sword in the firelight, he'd changed the conversation to an inquiry about her childhood. There had been other times that she'd seen the questions in his eyes, but they had never traveled to his lips. That was one of the good things about having Zevran as a friend. He understood that some questions were better left unasked.

"Are you sure, my Gray Warden? I had thought you had decided to let sleeping dogs lie, no? The Crows have given their pledge to you, and I do not think Ferelden's treasury has yet recovered enough from the deprivations of the Blight to tempt them away from it. The queen will not openly openly betray the Hero of Ferelden, surely."

It hadn't come as a shock to her that Anora's gravest concern was securing her power - she'd always thought Ferelden's queen was at heart as common as one of the Pearl's cheapest whores. Loghain, as mad and twisted as he'd been, had been driven by a purpose greater than wearing a crown. Anora's sleep was probably no more peaceful than her own, but instead of archdemons, darkspawn, and betrayal, she dreamed of rightful kings coming snatch the crown from atop her head. Siobhan wondered if that was because, deep down, Anora saw beneath the mask she wore.

Whatever the reason, it was not in Siobhan to find a convenient distraction to occupy herself. She'd avenged Howe's betrayal -- and she wouldn't sit idly by while the remainders of Maric's family were hustled off to oblivion. Good king though he might have been, he certainly hadn't made any effort to keep his trousers buttoned, nor had he stepped up to accept responsibility for his pleasures. Family deserved better, and she wasn't about to sit by and see one destroyed by another's ambition ... whether the Gray Wardens, the Queen, or anyone else liked it or not.

The first letter had arrived shortly after the war began. It had been delivered by one of Varric's sources, the same one who had seen to the delivery of his letters to Varania when he had hoped that discovering his past would fill something of the void inside. It went, unopened and unread, into the fireplace, and Fenris watched it curl and melt away almost without blinking. It was oddly silent, but he thought he could feel the burgeoning tides of war spreading throughout the land, a war he had helped start out of friendship.

The second letter caught up to him in Amaranthine, where he and Bethany had traveled upon Isabella's ship. He wasn't sure why he had offered to make the journey with Hawke's sister, but the things that had made him regard Kirkwall as a potential home were gone, burnt and blown away like ash. This letter, he had held in his hands, turning it over and over a dozen times before surrendering it, unread, into the flames.

He'd thought that would be the end of it ...

"You're Fenris, aren't you? Leto?"

The woman had been staring at him, despite the fact that she'd turned away each time he looked in her direction. He'd thought it was the lyrium markings, which he refused to cover, or simply the fact that the sword he bore was remarkable even for such turbulent times. The name pierced through him, though aside from a slight stiffening, he didn't show it. He half turned on the wooden bench, his face like stone. He was tired of running.

Sins of the Fathers (*with thanks to marauder13 for providing the plot bunny)

It had been over five years since since she'd seen her father. Two messages, painstaking lettered, had reached her the first two years, one arriving just before her seventeenth birthday, and the other just after her eighteenth. He had not been a man of words, her father, and Eiledon had known that it pained him to have another, even a trusted friend, set his thoughts to paper. She treasured them all the more for the love that was in the doing, even if the sentences were little more than the chronicles of a rural village elder who worked alongside his neighbors and friends to keep them fed, and fought at their head when danger threatened.

She had wanted to come when half a year had passed from her nineteenth name day, but when her twentieth birthday had come and gone, she accepted that her journey would serve no purpose. Cadeyrn of Arthfall trod the familiar stone paths of their homeland no more, and the world was a colder place for his passing. The proof of this is that no word reached her of his death, and though the vows she had taken to learn the art of the blade from the Scathachans required a withdrawal from the world, they demanded neither secrecy or the severing of ties.

She had last embraced Cadeyrn at fifteen, when he sent her off in the company of the man who was to be her guardian until her training was complete. At sixteen, she had entered the training hall, and except for sanctioned training exercises in the company of her teachers, she had not left it until she had received the Scathachan mark upon her shoulder at twenty-one. Her training was complete, and she was free to pursue her own course into the world, either forward or back.

There was no choice. With her guardian at her side, though he was no longer bound to her by oath with the completion of her training, she had come back to Arthfall to discover her father's fate. Midway thru Caegan Pass, she had found it - a simple stone marker bearing his rune mark and the season and year of his passing. By rights, he should have been laid to rest in a cairn of stone, a place of honor to mark his years of leadership and his deeds in battle. The tiny, insignificant marker was, at best, an insult. Eiledon's eyes blazed almost as brightly as her hair as she stood there in the snow, overlooking the lands that Cadeyrn had protected from threat and guided to as much prosperity as the winters would permit, and she hefted the blade in her hand.

She knew there were things that her father had not told her, such as why he sent her to the Scathachans when he disapproved of women devoting their lives to the blade in the manner that the Sisters demanded. She had seen the secrets in his eyes, felt it in his arms as he had embraced her, in the gentle press of his lips upon her forehead when she had left.

Now she was home, and the keeping of secrets was done. She would have the truth, and unless there was good reason for this outrage, she would see the insult washed away in blood.

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Looking for someone to play Eiledon's guardian, a warrior in his late 30's or early 40's, who had agreed to become her guardian in Cadeyrn's stead while she trained with the Scathachans, an order of warrior women who forswear the raising of a family for the blade. Those who survive the training generally go on to become warriors of note, either as mercenaries, in armies, or become protectors of some village or area of their choice.

He would not have had much unsupervised contact with Eiledon during her training, and would have seen her grow from a young lass into a determined woman, skilled with her blade but with little practical experience being on her own. His reasons for accepting the task are his own -- either tied into the backstory of secrets that I'm envisioning or not.

The story itself is negotiable, but I'm thinking that Eiledon is not Cadeyrn's daughter at all, but maybe his granddaughter instead, the child of his daughter and some evil practitioner of the dark arts. He hid her away far to the north, and sent her to learn the blade in an effort to give her the skills to resist her true father should he ever find her, as well as to ward off her developing any tainted magic of her own.

The relationship between the two is also negotiable - preferably it would be one that would generate some sexual tension and such which is always fun. That leaves room for a whole lot of dynamics in most any direction.

An unusual gift draws a strong-willed general into the realm of a succubus with a lesson to impart

That Collar Suits You, My Dear TAKEN (arkhos)

Alaric Bregard (or choose any name that fits your fancy) has been the king's most trusted bodyguard for fifteen years. He has killed, he has trained dozens of men in the skills of a warrior, and in the field and in matters of security and war, his word is second only to the king's. He is respected, and he is feared. Women come to his bed almost at the snap of his fingers, and he has aided more damsels in varying levels of distress than he can remember.

For his 38th birthday, the king presented him with two gifts -- one, a fine stallion of remarkable lines and fire, and another that the king had given him in private - a wooden box locked with a key of black iron. The king had seemed somewhat amused by the gift, but had refused to say more -- only that he should open it in private that night, and not a moment before. It was, the king said, the key to unlocking his greatest desires.

In the celebrations of the day, he had wondered what the king had given him. He was known to be the giver of excellent gifts to his friends, and Alaric was sure that his gift was something special. Finally, Alaric was able to leave his comrades behind and return to his quarters. He used the key to open the box, and found that it contained ... a leather collar attached to a long chain of silver links. Alaric had been around things of a magical nature long enough to recognize the hum of power.

It was, to say the least, a most unusual gift. Why, then, did he feel so drawn to fasten the collar around his neck and to stand before the full length mirror to see how well it fit?

--------------------

The hero in the story should be a strong man used to making decisions and giving orders. Sexually, he has taken his pleasures where he wished, but ultimately as his lovers looked to him to take charge and fulfill their needs. He is used to the dominant role, but over the years it seems that he has turned to dominance as a way to keep his lovers distant and disposable.

When he dons the collar and stands before the full-length mirror, it will open a portal into a magical realm where the collar's owner, Sabeth, a powerful succubus, waits to instruct her new slave. The magic of the collar is such that once donned, it will compel the wearer to do what his mistress commands, no matter how much he struggles against it. From the moment he dons the collar and stands before a mirror to the cock's crow the following morning, he will be her slave.

Will he flee back to his responsibilities and command, or will he crave the taste of submission's wine, returning to sip from its glass in stolen moments, or lose himself in heady surrender? Will his desires lead him to doom, or freedom such as he has never known?

--------------------

Details of the two characters are negotiable, but this is probably best suited for someone who wants to dabble in a bit of guilty pleasure dominance and bondage. The succubus will be firm, but rarely cruel, and she has no desire to break the collar's wearer, but rather to introduce him to the pleasure of surrendering control.

an inexperienced ranger makes a bargain with an ancient guardian in exchange for her life

Birth of The Huntress

Needed: a creative partner to take on the part of the powerful denizen in the below tale, who will first teach and then accompany River on her First Hunt (a series of 3 individual hunts spaced out throughout a year).

Requirements for the denizen are:

Humanoid, or capable of taking human shape

Lawful Neutral or Lawful Evil

Thrills to the Hunt

Enjoys Bargaining

Details to be worked out with potential partner:

Creature Type & Nature

Details of the Bargain

The Blackhills Mountains were a place of fearsome reputation. On the edge of the frontier where human cities and settlements were few and far between and at the mercy of both fierce winters and the wild denizens and abberations left over from the collapse of the empire during the magic wars of eight generations previously. Amongst the favorite stories of the Blackhills were those involving The Huntress, a dark and mysterious ranger who punished those who thought to hide their evils in her Wilds. There were those who whispered that they had seen her, weaving like a shadow through the trees, lurking at the edge of towns, and even drinking alone in dark corners of disreputable inns. These sightings were often accompanied by the disappearance of some monster in human skin, much to the jubilation of those who had lived in fear for their lives and loves.

This is the story of how it all began ... the betrayal and bargain that turned the Huntress from simple ranger to the voice of vengeance in the Black Hills.

When River Ashland overheard the men discussing their need for a guide to the ruined castle in the mountains, it sounded like the perfect way to earn enough gold to see her through the coming winter, when paired with her skills at hunting. She had been on her own for only a couple of years since her Ranger father had died, and though she loved the wilderness and her independence, it had been a difficult struggle. Aside from many good memories and the things he had taught her, the only things she had left of her parents was the small house they had built, good memories, the bow her father had made for her, and the small silver amulet that her mother had given her shortly before her death.

Her father had said that she had the making of a good ranger, but unfortunately he had been killed before her training had progressed very far. Still, she could track, she could hunt, and she was getting better with her bow every day -- and, in this case best of all, she knew the forest and the mountains themselves. She had never approached the old ruins any farther than to study the crumbled outer walls, but she knew where it was and she knew the pitfalls between there and town.

Thinking of her limply dangling purse, she approached the men and asked if they needed a guide. Though she hadn't liked the look one of them gave her, but the other two had reined him in quickly. As it turned out, she should have followed her first instinct.

They'd been on the trail for only two days when Boris made his move, cornering her against a tree when she'd gone from camp to get water. River refused him, first politely and then with a right cross against his jaw. He was furious, but Jared and Bram both told him to knock it off when she'd explained what had happened. Neither one of them had been especially solicitous, and had subtly mocked her lack of friendliness -- but at least it stopped. When they got to the castle and started exploring, the small group of adventurers found out that the castle might be in ruins, but it wasn't empty.

When the group encountered the castle's master, a powerful creature who was obviously beyond their power to stand against, the necklace given to River protected her, but the protection didn't extend to her three companions. The three men offered River to the creature in exchange for being allowed to leave with their lives, and one of the thief's drugged darts sealed the deal. "We'll give you the girl if you let us leave alive." This was the last thing River heard as her legs gave way and her vision dimmed, and the last thing that she saw was the creature's gaze following her fall, and the sound of his agreement.

When she woke again, the men were gone. She was wrapped in rich cloth, and in a small luxuriously furnished chamber that she judged to lie within the heart of the fortress ruins. A fire burned in the fireplace, taking the edge of the chill. The skin beneath the amulet she wore tingled painfully. Slowly, she raised herself and pushed aside the thick, dusty tapestry that enclosed her. A soft sound of movement let her know that she was not alone. With dread, she turned, and stared into the face of her captor.

She licked her lips, noting the hesitation in the creature's movement, as well as the intelligence and hunger in it's ... his ... eyes. "You don't like this, do you?" she asked softly, reaching up to touch the amulet. "That's why you wrapped me up to bring me here."

That didn't make her safe. She could see her own death in the monster's eyes, and suddenly she was angry. She was not angry at the one who would kill her, but rather the ones who had bargained for their lives with hers.

"You like bargains? Well, I'll make a bargain with you ..."

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- IN THE DARKEST NIGHT --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

fantasy setting with a 'Salem Witch Trials' feela pagan witch must seduce a stranger who has witnessed the coven's rituals

In the Darkest Night

The town of Falmouth barely rated a speck of ink on the Northern Kingdom maps. It was off the main trade routes, the harbor was too small to admit anything larger than the smallest seagoing vessels, and there was nothing that could be found there that couldn't be found bigger and better somewhere closer to civilization. That's just the way the residents seemed to prefer it. They raised crops, grew wheat, and sent cattle and dried and salted fish southward during the season. The people did well enough -- no one was rich, but residents seldom went hungry. The people took care of their own, and guarded their simple way of life and privacy with jealous care. They wanted no part of the cities, of workhouses and fledgling factories that were springing up in the more heavily populated south, and no part of the new ideas that civilization seemed determined to cultivate.

Life moved along in Falmouth just as it had done for two centuries. Everyone knows everyone, it seems, and the corruption of secrets, of anonymity, was a thing unknown. After life in the city, Falmouth seemed a paradise to one who had fled the city, seeking the purity and simplicity of country life.

Like all things that seem too good to be true, this idyllic port village was no exception. While Falmouth wanted no part of the corruption of the city, the residents were no strangers to darkness. In the forest glades and along the cliff tops and beaches, a coven of witches had come to call this little haven a home, and in the mid of night, they practiced their rites in secret, and slowly, the townsfolk found themselves seduced and won away from the light into the darkness.

***

A midnight walk led the newcomer into the forest, and in the darkness, he lost both his light and his way. After a time, he came upon a clearing deep within the wood. There, a sabbat was in progress - and to his horror, he recognized several of the elders and villagers, both male and female, engaged in carnal and blasphemous activities in celebration of some black rite. There were others who were masked, and clothed in such a way to fire the imagination but not provide a certain identification.

Before he could decide what to do, a blow on the back of the head rendered him unconscious, and he woke at home, though with unmistakable signs of having been out, and a knot rising beneath his hair.

***

Accusation of witchcraft is a very serious thing, and the town has obviously been corrupted enough that it could be dangerous for him to address the problem forthrightly. He could flee, but that would condemn the innocents that might yet be saved (or so says one part of his mind). A part of the man is curious and, despite himself, tempted by what he saw and has since imagined. Meanwhile, he begins to see glimpses of the darker side of the townsfolk, of the passions and angers and hatreds that simmer beneath the simple exterior ... as well as discovering them within himself.

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This is a sample post, assuming that the man in the above scenario was a priest of The One. (Generic deity used for convenience)

Quote

Isobel walked up the packed earth street, carefully lifting her skirts to keep the drying mud churned up by the passage of wagons from clinging to the cloth. Her boots, black leather that rose just over her ankles, were already spotted with it, but that was easy enough to clean, and it didn't quite carry the same feel of carelessness and inattention that arriving at the mercantile with muddied skirts brought. Besides, the air of late spring was already heated, and she welcomed the chance to feel the breeze beneath the dark weave and the ruffled petticoats. Her forehead was damp with perspiration, and the few tendrils of ash blonde hair that escaped from the pins that held it in a modest bun beneath her hat had already curled with the damp, and she smoothed it back as she swept up onto the wooden boardwalk that lined the small shops.

She smiled and nodded pleasantly to those she passed, her eyes lingering just a bit longer than was proper when she recognized others who had been exalted, but not enough to earn her a scolding. It was, in some ways expected. Her husband had gone to The One ... or another destination ... almost two years previously, and even those who did not follow the old ways did not approve of widows of childbearing age remaining single. Already, she had found herself the target of attention, some of it welcome and some decidedly not.

She paused for a few words of conversation with Sadie Brewster, one that showed much promise and who was already under consideration to join the select. They discussed the weather, the success of the spring planting, and several other inconsequential matters, before the conversation turned to gossip of the most genteel sort. Isobel was only half paying attention as she thought back to the rites of the Spring Equinox, which she had only observed, and to the coming Beltane. A small, secret smile lit her eyes and softened the curve of her lips, and she returned to the present as Sadie, seeing the smile but misinterpreting the reason for it, had flushed beet red and was stammering.

Isobel quietly took her hand in an earnest grasp, speaking gently as she smoothed things over, absorbing what she had heard. Sadie had been talking about the new priest of The One, Father Lancaster, and Isobel's smile had, or so the other woman had thought, seen into the other woman's interest and caused embarrassment and consternation. "My dear, not all priests forswear taking a wife, but I confess I do not know which sect our new spiritual adviser follows. I had not given thought ... so soon after Gerald's passing ... The elder ladies of the congregation will no doubt know - they always do, for they can get away with asking, since none will assume they have a personal motive for doing so."

She patted Sadie's hand, assuring her that she thought none the worse for the other woman's healthy interest, then excused herself. She had neglected attending the ceremonies since the new priest's arrival, with the best of excuses - tending the Jasper's children while the new mother recovered from a most difficult birth, and then the second year mark after Gerald's passing, but for appearance's sake she should not allow that practice to continue. She did enjoy the socializing, and the opportunities it brought, and the old father was an extremely amusing and clever man, though half of what he said passed over the head of those who did not share the secrets of Falmouth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Father Solomon, and quietly whispered, "Father Solomon approaches, my dear. Compose yourself - you blush quite charmingly and I am certain he will remember ..." Actually, she thought, the other woman should avoid blushing whenever possible - her eyes were a little too washed out already and they tended to water when she was upset, and her nose turned redder than her cheeks. Still, she'd no doubt make someone a decent wife, though she thought her expectations would come closer to being fulfilled if she set her sights on the farmer Macon, a widower with three children. Perhaps she should take a hand in that.

She left Sadie to straighten her spine and face the object of her instinctive fantasies, or to flee like a startled deer, and continued into the Mercantile, lifting her skirts just a bit higher than necessary, exposing the fine knitted stockings that hugged the curve of her lower calf for just a moment. If he noticed, she would, no doubt, have more of an indication of where he would fit in with the others in town.

Stamford House stood for many years just outside the small hamlet of Idlethorp, home to a minor but distinguished branch of the Godefroy family. The family made their wealth in trade and investments, but preferred to remain away from the temptations and dangers of the larger cities. The local Godefroys became known for their hospitality and lavish parties, attracting gentry from the surrounding areas. The last Godefroy to live in the house was Albert Godefroy, a widower with two beautiful twin daughters, Lene and Alys.

The two girls were inseparable, and as like in some things as two peas in a pod even though as they grew, their ordinary brown locks of both girls gradually changed in color until one was as dark as night, while the other's was light as the dawn. Lene, the dark-haired child, was said to be smarter and more impetuous and temperamental than her sister. Alys was slower of wit but possessed of a more gentle and generous nature. Both were well liked in the community. It was agreed that both girls were likely to make a fine match, and perhaps return this branch of the Godefroy family to a more prominent position.

The stories aren't quite clear on exactly what or who came between the two girls - a silly disagreement blown out of proportion or possibly jealousies over a man. Shortly before the Tragedy, something had caused a rivalry between the two to form. The discord between them quickly escalated, much to the dismay of their father. He determined that the best course of action might be to separate the two as quickly as possible until time and wisdom had cooled their tempers. The girls were, after all, somewhat past the age most girls of their station married, and many advised against indulging them for too long. To that end, he organized a house party. The guests included a few ladies of respected families and eligible gentlemen who he thought would make suitable matches. Unfortunately, he was called away to the city on urgent business, and left his daughters to entertain the guests with his trusted butler and housemaid acting as chaperons.

When Albert Godefroy returned, he found a horrifying sight. His daughters and guests were seated at the dining room table in the great hall, still dressed in their finery and all quite dead. Of the servants, there was no sign at all ... and no explanation for what had happened, though some who had assisted in funeral preparations whispered 'poison' because of the twisted expressions of agony upon the poor unfortunates' faces.

He buried his daughters in the family crypt, and made arrangements to transport the bodies of the dead back to their families, save for the body of one lone gentleman whose origins remained a mystery. Albert assumed that this man, as he was dressed in noble clothes and appeared in all respects a gentleman, was a friend of one of the other guests. His body was interred in the family crypt, in the spot nearest the door so that once identified his body could be reclaimed by his family once he was identified.

Albert then locked up the house with all its contents and departed. For a while, he hired locals to keep up the place, but eventually the funds stopped coming, and Stamford House was deserted. The mysterious man remained (or so it was supposed) in the Godefroy family crypt. The locals gave it a wide berth, and legends and stories about ghosts and demons kept all but the most curious at arms length.

And so it stood, until a suited, official little barrister appeared at the home of Hilda Godefroy, a foundling whose surname was merely a courtesy given because of the locket she had been wearing when she was found upon the doorstep of Heinrich and Freda Darling. The childless couple, who were fervent practitioners of spiritualism, took her in despite the odd circumstances, convinced that the spirits had sent her to them for a reason.

Hilda Godefroy has recently come to the village of Idlethorpe to claim her inheritance, Stamford House, a small estate not far from the village that has been left abandoned for more than a generation. The villagers believe the house to be haunted, but Hilda is not deterred. She claims to be a medium, and has impressed some of the locals with her talents. She has implored the mayor of the village, who claims some influence in the surrounding lands, to spread word amongst his contacts for a suitable adventurer to accompany her to Stamford House so that she may attempt to rid the house of disturbing spirits. Her partner would be responsible for guarding her physically while she attempts to free the trapped spirits, and/or possibly have a more active role.

A budding divine exorcist, a paladin, or other fighting type would be an ideal pairing. The storyline would involve some NC, as the feminine spirit(s) of the house have been without male companionship for some time. It would also be good if my writing partner were willing to take on the role of one or more of the male spirits who were originally guests at the fateful house party.

I do have a Ravenloftian twist in mind regarding Hilda, but it's flexible.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- HELD FOR RANSOM --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

a bitter rebel gets her hands on the kingdom's prince

Held for Ransom (TAKEN - marauder13)

For forty years, the coastal kingdom of Suneth has been ruled by Gareth the Black, a king whose rule began as just, if harsh, and has slowly deteriorated into despotic tyranny. Rebellion has been growing slowly, despite the harsh penalty, with the Jomandar – fighters for justice in the old tongue – adding to their ranks as it is now impossible for a Sunethite to wake up in the morning without violating some law or other, and the application of laws now depends on the king’s desires and whims.

The king’s greatest source of discontent is the fact that all his wives and all his mistresses have produced only one son, and only two daughters who have been married off to secure alliances with neighboring kingdoms. As Gareth is now in his 60’s, the likelihood of him producing another is faint indeed. The hope of his immortality lies in his son.

And now, through happenstance, accident, fate, or something else entirely, the prince has fallen into the hands of the Jomandar. It falls to Viveca Rouge, specifically, the leader of a particularly troublesome band of rebels, to make the most of this unlikely circumstance and perhaps win freedom for some of those languishing in Suneth’s prisons awaiting execution in exchange for the prince’s return – or perhaps eventually forge new alliances that will bring a new and better day to all of Suneth as Gareth’s reign is brought to an end.

This story has more potential to be darker than my usual fantasy story, but it does not have to be. I have left the premise purposely vague, as it can be modified to fit the preferences of the prince’s player, if anyone is interested.

Viveca has seen a lot of cruelty – senseless imprisonments, floggings, barbaric punishments, and women used as chattel, and I imagine she has some history of being used herself. She is not going to be pleasant to the imprisoned prince at first, and she is very aware that she has the upper hand for the moment. Arrogance and threats would be met with her fist or boot, or possibly being chained hand and foot until he learns some manners.

The relationship between the two characters is also left open – the sexual element might begin with antagonistic desire, or maybe Viveca giving in to her desire to teach the prince a lesson, maybe showing him what it’s like to be totally under someone else’s power, even if it’s a much gentler version of what some of the king’s nobles practice. It might also be that the prince is a much nicer man than his father and the relationship takes another form.

In any event, this will not be a story about torturing or breaking the captive prince, and nor is it a good fit for someone wanting to play a very submissive character. Such a character would probably have been killed by his father long before falling into Viveca’s hands. Any submissive tendencies would have needed to have been sublimated – and while I would be open to having them come out in the story, I want it to fit with the backstory.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

alu-demon attempts to coax a retired assassin back into the game

A Succubus Scorned

Faith was a foundling upon the temple steps, taken in by Father Daniel, a priest of Pelor, and his wife, as they had learned that they would have no children other than their tiny son Alexi, who was frail and plagued by ill health. Faith was a beautiful child, with thick auburn hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and eyes as green and sparkling as the leaves upon the Tree of Life depicted in stained glass that glittered behind the altar at the sun's rising. She had a sweet, eager to please disposition that was occasionally marred by stubbornness or the occasional intense tantrum, but she was always contrite over such outbursts and did her best to please her foster mother and father.

Her foster brother had quickly outgrown his early fragility, and Faith followed him about with adoring eyes, and while rebukes from her parents could sting, she was devastated by a harsh or unthinking word from Alexi. As the years passed, he grew up strong and devout, and it was certain he would enter the church as one of the god's faithful warriors, a paladin of faith. Faith likewise grew, and though she could be stubborn and hadn't quite managed to banish anger from her nature, she was well regarded by the community, and her closeness to Alexi was regarded with amused affection rather than suspicion, for after all, they were not blood kin ...

However, Father Daniel harbored a terrible secret. Faith was the fruit of his forbidden trysts with a succubus, and her existence was a continual reminder of the vows he had broken to his god, the worshipers of Pelor whom he guided, and to his wife and family. The succubus had grown bored with their trysts, and considered it vastly amusing to force him to care for the child and watch him continue to struggle with his lust, his fear of discovery, and his conscience, and she used varying forms of blackmail and threats to see that he did not shirk 'his duty' to his daughter.

When it became obvious that Alexi was enamored of his foster sister, and was determined to have her for his wife when she was old enough, the priest's conscience finally won, and he revealed his sins and Faith's demonic origins. Even though she had lived a virtuous life within the community and the church of Pelor, she was condemned and sentenced to death. Even Alexi, the symbol of all things pure and virtuous, had condemned her for her father's sins, and turned from her in anger, blaming her for things beyond her control.

Faith's succubus mother, however, had no mind to let the daughter she had borne in agony be so summarily destroyed. She rescued the half-succubus girl and sheltered her from the wrath of the clerics and warriors of Pelor, and helped Faith understand her true nature.

The demon-tinged woman's anger toward Pelor and the church of Pelor burns with a white-hot fire, and she takes great delight in exposing the corruption of clerics, paladins, and other weak-willed who use the church for their own ends. Her half-brother, Alexi, is now a paladin, sworn to put her to the blessed sword ... and it is bitter-sweet knowledge that he has never managed to purge himself of his desire for her. Now a follower of the Raven Queen, Faith seeks out those who profess to follow the dictates of Pelor and other shining dieties, and reveal their secrets when it suits her purpose, or that of the Raven Queen.

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Potential pairings include any cleric or paladin (neither of these ideally should be chaste) who are not satisfied with their wife or betrothed, or a follower of Pelor who intentionally seeks to summon a succubus to sate sexual desires despite its forbidden nature. This could also be accidental - they have found an item that she desires, and as they seek to find out how it works, she could appear and make them think they've summoned a demon when they really haven't ...

Another potential pairing that I'd be interested in trying is a 'reunion' with her half-brother Alexi, the details of which are better worked out via messages, given the multiple paths that the story could take.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- LA FEE VERTE --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

the sailor & the djinn

La Fee Verte

The djinn once roamed freely over the desert kingdoms, playing with mortals with little thought given to danger. They amused themselves freely, granting wishes to those brave or foolish enough to match wits with the elemental spirits, and life was good. Then, humankind discovered magic. Some say it was the elves who taught them the secrets of imprisoning magic. Still others say that a human, wise beyond mortal ken, tricked the secrets from a demon. However it happened, the djinn found themselves hunted, sought for their powers of wishes, or destroyed in vengeful reckoning for past amusements.

The days of the djinn's glorious freedom is long past, and the djinn have faded into legend -- little more than a moral fable to chastise those arrogant in their own wit. They have not been destroyed completely, but those who possess these artifacts that imprisons one of the remaining elementals keep them closely guarded, and dare their powers only sparingly. Too, some have been lost over the centuries, destroyed in cataclysms or hidden away in deep recesses beyond all knowledge or sight.

Yet what is lost may again be found, and the bottle that holds Sajah al-Zarqa, daughter of a djinn prince, has once again found its way to the world of men. It sits on a small shelf with a wooden placard that reads 'Caveat Emptor', amid a scattering of trinkets and books. It is an elegant bottle of glass, twined about with a copper vine whose shine has long been lost beneath the patina of age. The glass itself is a cloudy blue and green, with streaks of yellow and red at the tips of the swirls as if its creator had attempted to depict the four elements in his crafting.

************************

It was hard to explain what it was like inside the bottle that held Sajah's essence. She was no tiny version of herself, lounging on soft cushions and eating dates and other succulent fruits while she waited for the bottle to be opened. Instead, her essence was present, but incorporeal. She had only the vaguest sensation of the passage of time, and little knowledge of what went on around her.

That did not mean she was completely quiescent. She 'woke' briefly, if that was the term, each time her bottle had been taken since the holy man had driven her back into it and sealed her away inside a small, dark recess in the cliffs, to be covered over by sand. He had feared the demon who had ensorcelled his brother, and rightly so, for Sajah's last master had used her ill, and her vengeance had been both without compassion and subtle. She had been aware when the sand that had long hidden her bottle from the welcome heat of the sun was pushed away, and when the earth that cradled the bottle had been disturbed. Again, she was aware when a man, his thoughts filled with the promise of a few coin, had lifted her, but he had no thoughts of curiosity for what lay inside, and she did not compel him. Being owned by a fool with no imagination was worse than the state of unbeing. Each time her bottle had been handled, she had known, and known, as well, something of the nature of the one who handled her. She was content to sleep.

Then, at last, she felt herself being lifted by one who was not like the rest, though his thoughts were swirling, chaotic, and fogged by drink. Even without her will directed, which she could do only with great effort to those receptive, she knew he could sense something of the nature of what he held, though his addled brain rejected the knowledge. Slowly, so very slowly, her awareness increased, and, through the one who carried her, she sensed something of the world outside. It was a pleasant feeling, and one that woke old memories, old hungers for life.

She waited with ever increasing eagerness as the bottle was examined, and knew the very moment when the one who held it found the release, and she readied herself, her essence well-satisfied, this time, to return to full awareness. The catch released, and Sajah felt the sensual movement of the air once more. She did not hesitate, did not fight the terms of the enchantment that linked her to the bottle. She felt her essence spewing out, taking on the solidity of smoke, caressing against the cool metal of her prison's top.

To the one who had released her, it seemed that a cloud of red-tinged, rolling smoke had been released under pressure, forcing its way out too quickly to restrain. The cloud coalesced, then settled, in a mass on the floor, whirling, swirling, in hypnotic patterns for the space of a few heartbeats, and then sucked itself inward, forming and transforming into a human-like shape.

Sajah stood with arms flung wide and eyes closed as her essence transformed from mostly air to that of earth, water, and a hint of fire. Her skin was dark, the dusky hue of the desert people, and her long black hair, pulled up and back by a gold and amber clasp, hung down her back. Her ears, revealed by the style of her hair, were pointed and set in close to her head. Her features were angular, with high cheekbones, full eyebrows and long, thick lashes. Her lips were dark and generous, curved upward in a smile that hinted of the delight she felt upon retaking her preferred form after so long.

She was tall, standing perhaps 5'10", and her body was lithely muscular, bracelet covered arms well defined. Her top was of red and gold, and hugged her breasts tightly, a silken fringe hanging down to tickle her bare midriff, the muscles of her abdomen rippling. Her naval held a ruby nestled within the small indentation, and her loins were covered with a wide band of soft, supple looking leather that hugged her hips just below the ruby, holding the filmy fabric of her skirts that left her legs and most of her thighs bare. Her feet were encased in well-crafted strapped sandals, the nails of her fingers and toes long, and colored with henna.

She faced, directly, the one who had released her, and when her eyes opened, she regarded him with eyes the color of the desert night sky, and smiled, a provocative, teasing smile that held the promise of both heaven and hell. "What is your wish, O Master?"

The words were ritual, compelled both by the nature of the spell holding her to the bottle, but also instinctive, simply part of being what she was -- a djinn. It was time to play.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- COME INTO MY PARLOR ... --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

occasionally comedic story of a young man promised in marriage to a jealous older woman

Come Into My Parlor ...

Lady Maread Seville was born of common stock, and had she not demonstrated an uncanny ability with the blade and a myriad of other weapons, she likely would have claimed no place higher than the wife of a blacksmith or farmer who prized rampant good health and strength over more traditional feminine beauty.

She came upon her talents quite by accident – a scouting band of orcs invaded her family’s small farmhouse and set about looting and raping. Rather than being terrified, the young girl was enraged. While one of the orcs was otherwise engaged, she managed to get her hands on his sword.

Her fathers and brothers returned to find her mother and sisters, in torn clothes and bruised but otherwise unharmed, scrubbing the blood from the house. The orcs, or rather the pieces that remained, had been dragged outside, food for the flies and worms.

The tale spread quickly, though most people discounted it as wildly exaggerated rumor. However, Maread held the swords that she had taken like extensions of her own arms, and absorbed the limited knowledge of the locals like a sponge regarding their uses. When a local armsmaster heard of her success, he had her brought to the lord’s keep and tested her himself. Her fate was thus sealed … and she entered into the service of the king, pledging her blade to his will.

A quarter century later, she has a title and a keep of her own, and a place at court. Her skill in battle is unequaled, and she has proven herself a good tactician and steward of the king’s land, but her personal life has been fraught with disaster. Her first husband, a minor nobleman who fancied himself a bard, was indiscriminate with his affections , some say during the wedding feast itself. He was killed a mere two years into the marriage, falling in a duel to a neighboring lord with pretty young wife. Her second husband, a seasoned commander in the king’s army, fared little better, breaking his neck after tumbling down the tower steps during an icy winter storm after a mere five years of marriage. Her third husband, a scholar and alchemist who was dismissed from court after some scandal, was killed in a bizarre accident in his laboratory shortly after rumors of his dalliance with a pretty servant lass became public.

Her fourth husband, a smooth-talking traveler who boasted of gypsy blood, lasted the longest, and some said that the curse on the keep’s mistress had finally been lifted. However, after seven years of marriage, he too met with a curious disaster, apparently mysteriously disappearing from within his locked bedroom, with the only clues a rumpled bed, a few long blonde hairs upon the pillow, and the bloodied print of half a hand on the mantle of the fireplace.

Of course, what else could one expect when all the Lady’s marriages came about because of some pressing need of the bridegroom to join himself to a strong , wealthy woman? It is whispered that Lady Maread in each case proposed the suit – not an unheard of practice for someone risen from lowly ranks to a higher position with no connections of family to speak for her. She treated the people in her keep well, and if she was intolerant of disloyalty among both the warriors who served her and the staff, that was to be expected.

When another man, younger than her and possessed of roguish charm like the rest, came asking for her help, Lady Maread’s eyes sparkled with a gleam that was familiar to her trusted retainers …

Seeking an opposing character to play Lady Maread’s new (potential) husband. The reasons for his petition are negotiable, but should be compelling enough to have him agree to her terms. I would like the story line will include a number of ‘absurd’ tests engineered by the lady to determine his level of faithfulness … and where it goes from there depends on how the story plays out. He should also be something of a black sheep type, with a roguish nature.

The setting is fantasy, of course, with magic a rarity. Hedge witches and alchemists are generally the closest to magic that most people see, and they mostly concentrate on healing arts. However, love potions and the like can be found (though they are quasi-legal at best) as can poisons (which are highly illegal and considered extremely dishonorable). Strength of arms is highly valued, and warriors or warrior-statesmen hold the bulk of the power in the kingdom.

Someone wanting to incorporate a goodly amount of humor, (more-or-less) witty repartee, and absurd lengths gone to carry out dalliances would be ideal.

Constance Barrons was a witch. She didn't look exactly like what most folk expected a witch to look like, but then again,most people weren't too surprised when the found out she was one. Maybe it was the hair, that never seemed to be tamed, and braidin' it up proper made her head hurt like imps had a hold of it pullin' it tight like a hangman's noose. Maybe it was her eyes, which were the green of moss, speckled with bits of gold like some hand had scattered out temptation on water hyacinth leaves to tempt the unwary. Maybe it was her body, which even under her brown and black dresses defied any spread of age. Maybe it was Leonidas, her familiar -- a cat as black as polished coal, with eyes that same shade of his mistress' -- or maybe it was something less tangible than any of that, a way she had of lookin' at people like she could see them stripped bare to the bone, beyond what any lack of clothes might reveal.

Most of the time she wasn't a bad witch. She didn't much care for hurting people, but there were times when somebody needed hurting. Most of the people around in her neck of the woods didn't mess with her too much -- they came to her when they wanted someone to love them, when they wanted their boss to notice something they'd done, when their wife or husband started steppin' out or a son or a daughter was gettin' in with the wrong kind. They came to her when they needed some bit of good news for the future to keep 'em goin' when the present wasn't nothin' to write home about.

Some of the things she did were kind of in between helping -- things like contacting the spirit of the departed to find out something that someone thought they couldn't live without knowing, or say something that probably would have been best left unsaid. Sometimes she gave warnin' of the bad things that she saw comin', even though she knew it was likely useless or just made things that much worse one way or another.

And every now and then, when she felt it was worth the doing, Constance got out the things that she kept locked away, locked up tight enough to resist all but the most pressin' of reasons, and she called up things that put a hurtin' on folks what deserved it ... for those willin' to accept the price.

For those bad things she did, she didn't charge anything for herself, and she paid a price herself in the doin', but that didn't stop her none. There was a price, though, and it wasn't want she could set. The things she called up had their own wants, their own needs, and usually ... they didn't give nothin' away for free. If they claimed it was without a cost, then that was when she advised the needy to hold on tight to their souls with both hands.-------------------------------------

Constance would be at home in in most time periods and in fantasy settings as well. I'm looking for someone in need of a witch to help me tell this story -- starting out with something small at first and potentially growing into a larger plot with a more complex task and villain and likely not starting out with anything too dark at first -- though that could definitely be a long term goal.

If set in a historical or current time period, the location would be the Southern US, Appalachia, Ozarks, Louisiana Bayou preferred.

SET-UP: I'm looking to expand my writing repertoire to include a foray into non-con / forced sex. This is not typically one of my 'ons', but more in the nature of an experiment to see what I can do if I take my 'maybes' a small step forward.

There should be more emphasis on control than pain, and someone who can offer more subtle means to exercise that control than resorting to humiliation or explicit degradation.

This is not a BDSM scenario - My character isn't a submissive, but rather a character with a strong will coupled with the intelligence of knowing that sometimes you have to do things you might not want to do. I'd like her to find some pleasure in bowing to the inevitable, but I'm not looking for her to be 'trained', 'broken', or the like.

SCENARIO:

Quote from: Possibility 1:

Woman breaks in to character's residence or stronghold, to rob or to recover something that she believes was taken from her family rightfully but is desperate to get it back

Quote from: Possibility 2:

Woman is taken as payment for a debt owed, be it monetary or in terms of an insult or proof of fealty

SETTING: Historical, Fantasy, Modern, Supernatural

REQUIREMENTS: Someone to play the part of a rather narcissistic, proud, 'owner' who is very serious about collecting what he is owed, but not particularly cruel. He would need to enjoy control, but not be motivated by the desire to inflict pain or humiliation. He should be somewhat sophisticated, in keeping with the setting, clever and willing to exercise a bit of planning and patience to get what he wants.

PARTNER WISH LIST:

Open to discussing the story, the writing, and occasionally offering some feedback and/or suggestions.

Mindful of spelling and grammar.

Enjoy some plot even in a short term story.

Is willing and able to post at least once a week, and preferably a bit faster.

Will post in a timely manner, let me know if there's an issue, or step up and say 'I don't want to/can't continue.'

sheriffs, deputies, werewolves, a missing rancher, his stubborn daughter, & a woman with a jealous husband and a wandering eye are a sure recipe for trouble in the Old West

High Plains MoonTAKENThis is a story that that I was writing with Prince Dirk -- it had its challenges, but I REALLY liked the dynamic going on with Cass and her friend Eva Leighton and the potential friendship/rivalry that was underway.

The details of the Sheriff and his sons are negotiable -- except, of course, that they are lycanthropes who are preying on cattle and the occasional troublesome rancher, drifter, or townsfolk while the sheriff works on becoming the area's newest land baron.

This LINK leads to the story as it progressed. I'm not expecting that anyone will want to take it over, but I'm more than happy to re-work it to meet the interests of a good writing partner for a new beginning.

----------------------------------Cassandra Clayton

Cass is no-nonsense, head strong woman with her own ideas about love, life and everything in an era when strength is valued -- except when a woman starts thinking she doesn't need a man to do a man's job.

Eva Leighton

Eva is a woman trapped in an abusive marriage with a man she has come to despise, and she's ready to do almost anything to grab some happiness for herself, even if it means pushing Cass toward a man she doesn't want.

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Cassandra Clayton has been doing her best to hold down the Diamond Bar ranch after her father disappeared. After all, she'd lived on the ranch all her life and worked alongside him and learned everything he had to teach about being a good rancher at his knee. Despite her best efforts, it was a hard trail to ride, and circumstances and her own ranch hands seemed to slowly be turning against her. If she couldn't manage the men, there was no way she could hold on to her father's herds. Without the herds, everything that they'd worked so hard for would slowly turn to dust and blow away. She couldn't let that happen to his ranch or his legacy, but she was running short on ideas as to how to make it work.

The Sheriff had his own plans as to how to go about getting control of the Diamond Bar, since Cass was too stubborn to sell. His son would convince her that the ranch needed a man running it, and if he couldn't, there was more than one way to rope a horse. And all the cattle killings in the area and disappearances of folk who didn't come around to the sheriff's way of thinking would only work to his advantage.

the plague sweeps over the land, and a lord makes a desperate bargain to protect those dearest to himloosely inspired by 'The Masque of the Red Death'

Wouldst Thou Trade Thine Very Soul? TAKEN (Napanee)

Plague has come, and ravages cities and countryside alike in a slow-moving, inevitable progression. The mortality rate is high, and healers and hedge-witches alike offer hope in the form of dubious cures that have little result.

One noble received warning of the plague in advance, from an unlikely and highly suspect source - a 'wise woman' he met while visiting his family's country estate, a place that had been inexplicably abandoned by his great-grandfather save for a small 'staff' who chased away trespassers with blade and bow. She delivered her warning, which he discounted ... but as he left her there in the overgrown garden, he saw her eyes change, flashing red as fire and cooling into the deep, soulless black of coal. Her visage haunted him in his dreams, and there she repeated her warning, and offered ... when the time came ... to provide a place of refuge where the plague would not enter ... for a price.

Fell dreams, as beautifully compelling as they were terrifying, these visions of what could be, troubled his sleep and the physicians could offer no remedy that dispelled them. When the first news of the plague arrived, he knew ... demons may lie, but they tell the truth when it suits their purpose.

As the death toll increased, he made his decision, and returned to the remote keep to strike the bargain, agreeing to the demon's price. Plague would not enter the keep's walls, so long as he agreed to the demon's demands. The bargain was struck, and the lord rode from the keep, to gather together all that he could trust; all that would come ... promising safety to all those who would swear fealty to his rule withing the walls, until the plague had returned from whence it had come.

It was a fool's promise, but made by a man of noble reputation in a time of desperation ...

Premise

Dealing with getting the keep in order, making plans to survive the plague within the walls with limited supplies and rations, dealing with pleas from those who find their way to the keep and seek entry, and all the normal politics, difficulties, jealousies, rivalries, thefts, crimes, and the like that always arise in these 'isolation' type situations.

Keeping the demon amused, and keeping her presence a secret -- something that she will make increasingly difficult. As long as she is interested in the little dramas going on in the keep, she won't be thinking of more of her own to create.

What happens when it is no longer possible to hide the fact that the safety of the keep's inhabitants is controlled by a demon inside, and the plague without?

Historical (Viet Nam war era) / 'Bonnie & Clyde' or 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' type scenarioa young woman with a troubled past seeks relevance and meaning in a time of social upheaval

Eve of Destruction TAKEN

Eve of Destruction - Bobby McGuire

Think of all the hate still living inside usIt's never too late to let love guide usWe can leave here for a lifetime in spaceAnd if we return we'll find the same old place

The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgraceYou can bury your dead, but don't leave a traceHate your next-door-neighbor, but don't forget to say grace

And, tell me over and over and over and over again, my friendYou don't believeWe're on the eveOf destruction.

August was always the hottest month, hot and miserable with water hanging in the air so thick that it sometimes felt as if it could choke her on the way down her throat. The skies offered no hint of forthcoming relief. They were a dirty, muddy gray that obscured the sun, but only dimly, and heat lightning flickered grimly, almost ominously, as if reminding her storms carried things other than a cooling wind when they came.

Her given name was Polendra Armes, her married name Polendra A. Wilkes. Only her father used her full name, and his voice imbued it with the weight of his disapproval. Everyone else called her Polly, when they called her anything at all. Most of the time, if they were talking to her, they just didn't say any name at all, or referred to her with a pronoun that sounded more anonymous to her ears than personal.

Sweat ran down from her hair, matting the wayward strands to the skin. The drops trickled like tears, another reminder that she was inadequate. She should be crying like any normal person, shedding tears, feeling her nose get stuffy and red like a Christmas doll she had once gotten in the Church exchange. Her father had hated it, called it a false idol, but for some reason she hadn't understood at the time he had let her keep it. Her hands were sweaty, too, smearing and smudging the ink on the envelope's address. She'd crumpled it a little, both the envelope and the letter inside. Part of her had thought about tearing it up, tossing the pieces in the round, dented waste basket by the door, but it hadn't seemed worth the effort.

There were only a couple of paragraphs on the lined notebook paper, written in Andy's neat penmanship. The letter had traveled half-way around the world, possibly making its way from the paper mill just outside town to some government warehouse located in Shreveport or Atlanta or even San Francisco before being loaded on a boat or plane for places that she couldn't even pronounce -- Quảng Tín -- where Andy'd got it. Then it had been carried out, amidst gunfire and bombs and who knows what else, making its long, meandering way back to her. Had he written more than one letter, she wondered, tearing up the first few drafts until he'd gotten it all condensed into the concise formula of repudiation that she'd read?

The thought made Polly smile, a twisted little thing that held a faint glimmer of humor. No, not Andy. He'd made up his mind and then done it, not wasting time on worrying about what might happen afterward. She envied him that.

He probably hadn't given a thought to what the letter meant to her. Her father would disown her, no doubt about that, and drag her mother across the street to avoid passing. But maybe that was one of the great blessings in disguise that he was always talking about in his sermons. Maybe it was.

Polly didn't really care about the divorce. He hadn't wanted to marry her, and she guessed that she hadn't really wanted to marry him either. Her father and his had insisted on it, when it became plain that the busted condom he'd used on the last of their two times in the back seat of his Ford wasn't going to let their sin be hidden under a bushel. He'd been chosen in the draft, and the entirity of their marriage was a hasty wedding, and three awkward days of sullen resentment. There had been one more bitter coupling that had tasted more of anger and fear than 'love and cherish' before he'd taken the bus for Fort Gordon. There hadn't even been a kiss farewell, only a moment of stilted and only vaguely sincere well-wishes under the eyes of family and friends.

He'd gotten out, and he wasn't ever coming back.

The most she wished was that he'd taken her with him. Not so she could be with him, not really, but just so he could have left her behind someplace else, someplace new, anyplace but here.​

It was hot, and even in the shade from the trees on both side of the bridge, the metal drove away the chill from her fingers where they clutched. The rusted iron would leave marks on her dress, on her shawl, and there'd be hell to pay.

Polly laughed at that habitual thought, a little wildly. No, there wouldn't, because there was nobody to care if she ruined her dress. She could take it off and dance naked over the old bridge, or she could jump into the waters below and it probably would make no difference at all. Her father would say that she'd come to the bad end that he'd known she would. Her mother might cry a little, but she'd do it where it wouldn't be seen and the stoic, numb face that she presented to the world, to Polly's father, wouldn't change.

Was it real if you kept it hidden? Did denying the truth of a thing negate it?

In two days, she'd be twenty. In three, the divorce would be final, the marriage gone the way of the child that she'd not been able to hang onto long enough for the poor little thing to take its first breath. It was better off. What could she offer a child, anyway?

Her father was furious. Andy's father wasn't happy about the divorce, but now that there was no baby, he hadn't been willing to force the point -- and that had made Bill Armes all the more furious, especially when Polly had told him that she was not going to do any of the things he'd demanded she do to bring shame on Andy or his family. It was probably the first time in her life that she'd told him 'no', and for a minute she thought rage was going to cause his heart to burst right then and there.

Was she really a terrible person, a terrible daughter, when there was a part of her who'd been disappointed when he hadn't? Who'd felt bitter when he'd finally lowered his hand, remembering that they weren't alone and he couldn't just hit her and pretend that it had been her clumsiness that made the bruise, not with Andy's dad there threatening to call the police?

From the marriage, she had the trailer, and the GTO that she didn't know how to drive. Andy's father had insisted on some of Andy's pay coming to her, and the military had agreed, but she hadn't needed Mr. Wilke's warning that as soon as Andy got out of the military, that would end -- if not sooner.

She had her job at Woolworth's Five and Dime, and with that and her own used trailer, she was probably better off than she'd ever been. If she'd known how to be on her own, how to manage the lonely hours, how to get out and meet people instead of keeping them at arm's length -- she might be relishing the thought of freedom instead of feeling cut off, cast adrift, like the crushed up soda pop bottle below that got caught up in the eddy by one of the poles that held the bridge up, swirled around a couple of times, and then was carried off down the swirls of white water above the rocks like garbage, flotsam.

Was the bridge high enough that jumping from it would kill her? Or would that be just another failure, something else that she'd not been able to manage?

Nineteen years old, for another two days. Polly Wilkes, nee Armes, stood there on the bridge, feeling alone, feeling lost, feeling empty and used up, crushed. It showed in her posture, in her face, in the tendrils of hair that kept escaping out of the clasp she'd done it up in and blowing wild in the breeze. Her eyes weren't blue, and they weren't green, but somewhere in between. Andy'd told her she was pretty, but that was when he was looking to get under her skirts, looking ... or so he'd said later ... to make it with a virgin, somebody nobody else had touched. Her breasts were fuller than they had been, after the miscarriage, full enough that she'd gotten more stares than she was used to when she leaned over to pour coffee at the lunch counter, and her waist was still trim. She didn't feel pretty, or ugly, or much of anything.

She didn't know what to feel. At least, for a while, when her time of the month hadn't arrived and she'd known that she'd have to confess what she'd done, she'd felt real. Once it was done, and there was a plain gold band on her finger, even the knowledge that she held another life inside her had drifted away, stopped being real.

Maybe she'd even caused that, by not being able to feel like it was real, like it mattered.

If she'd still believed in prayer, she would have prayed ... for something to make it feel real again. Even pain was better than this, this nothingness that welled up inside her when the sun went down and the night descended, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Rita, Nikki & Shelly are three housemates who live in a city brownstone. Rita owns the brownstone and a new age gift shop. Nikki is an up and coming marketing executive at a company that makes lingerie and club wear, and Shelly is just starting her first year as a kindergarten teacher.

All three ladies have some baggage – Rita doesn’t fully realize it yet, but she’s in love with her business partner (who has serious issues that are keeping him away from the business). Nikki’s climb to the top is encumbered by a boss who wants sexual favors in return for her advancement, and co-workers who will climb over anyone they need to in order to further their own careers. Shelly was abused as a young teen, and is awkward and socially inept when it comes to men.

Everything changes when Rita’s new age experimentation / interest in the occult brings a supernatural force into their lives.

This is a story that I started with someone on Elliquiy, but unfortunately it never really got off the ground and posting ground to a halt.

I’d love for someone who wants to pick up this idea and run with it. I was really enjoying incorporating the three different personalities into the situation. The first story had them encounter a demonic force who had opened a shop, ala ‘Needful Things’. The story could take this tactic, or we could use something along the lines of a cursed object, a failed séance or Ouija board session – anything that introduces a sinister presence into their lives that takes 3 basically nice women and lures them down a darker path, tempting them with the things they’ve always wanted but weren’t quite willing to do what it took to get.

If you’re interested in the story, believe in using ‘spell-check’ and capitalization/punctuation, AND are willing to commit to at least a post a week, I’d love to discuss the details with you.

I've included a couple of sample posts from the defunct story. The first is my initial post, and the second is a snippet of a later post, which gives a small sample of the three characters interacting.

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"Did you see? It's open!"

Patsy's excited voice was the first thing she heard as she opened the door to Witch Way Gifts. The first thing that she saw is that the crystal chimes that had come in the day before hadn't been put up on display like they should have been, and the candles and incense still sat unopened in their box. Her lips tightened, and her breath escaped in a small sigh before she caught it and forced as close an imitation to an interested smile as she could manage before her first cup of tea. "See what's opened?"

Without waiting for an answer, she took off her jacket and hung it up on the antique coat rack near the door, then headed to the back room to put away her purse and sunglasses. That Patsy had opened likely meant that her partner, John, wasn't coming in again. It also meant that the bookwork they needed to get done for the bank probably wouldn't get done unless she did it herself -- which was just one tiny step better than asking Patsy to do it. With the ease of long practice, she scooped out some of the strong, dark breakfast tea blend from her private sock and dumped it into her favorite acorn-shaped tea ball and got hot water from the water cooler to start her tea brewing.

"The new store - Arkham Books. Weird name, isn't it? It looks really fancy -- too ritzy for this neighborhood, if you ask me, but I got a look at the owner. Wow, what a hottie, if you like suits."

"That's nice. I don't like having empty buildings on the street - it's a target for the bums and druggies. And it's not good for business. Did John call?"

"Last night. He said Tracy was having a bad night, and he asked me to open for him this morning. He'll be in when he can."

"Great. Just great ..." Rita swirled the tea ball inside her cup until the water darkened, and dumped in a pack of of Equal sweetener into it. "Well, since you're here, can you finish putting the new product up and watch the shop for a little bit? I'm going to put together a welcome basket to take over to the new shop." She drank several swallows of the tea, and took the rest with her as she started moving about the shop, considering what someone who owned a fancy new bookstore might like.

Patsy pouted, but once she decided Rita wasn't in the mood to gossip, she went off to attend to a few early customers and to start on the display. Rita took a basket and lined it with some Greenwrap, and added a few choice items -- two varieties of tea, two small loaves of the sweet bread that she had baked and put out the day before, a small space clearing bell meant to be hung on the front door to keep any room free of negative vibrations, and two small chakra candles. As she fussed over the arrangement, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors hanging on the wall. Her blonde and black hair hung loose over her shoulders in ringlets, and the gray sleeveless gothic waistcoat she wore looked good on her trim figure, as did the tight black jeans that hugged all her curves just right. She looked ... well, she looked like someone who would own a new age wiccan gift shop. She wondered what her new neighbor would make of her -- if he'd named his shop 'Arhkham Books', perhaps he'd at least be sympathetic, suit or not.

A sudden influx of customers - tourists - and several phone calls delayed her plans, and it was after 11:00 before things were under control enough for her to leave. The sun had warmed the air enough for her to leave off her jacket, and it felt good to leave the shop and her frustrations behind. The new book store didn't look that much different from the other shops on the outside, but Rita stopped in awed admiration when she saw the inside. Wow.

How long she might have stood there gawping, she thankfully didn't have the opportunity to find out. The man approaching her was, indeed, a hottie -- though Rita herself might have chosen a slightly different adjective to describe him. He was immaculately dressed, and when he saw her, his smile lit the room, dispelling her first impression of something slightly unpleasant in the set of his lips and eyes.

"Hello. I'm Rita Alworth, your neighbor across the way. I wanted to drop by and bring you a little 'shop-warming' -- to welcome you to the neighborhood." She held out her hand, feeling foolishly glad that her nails were done in a simple French manicure rather than outlandishly painted like she sometimes wore them.

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She shook her head. It was silly, and it would give John another reason to smile sadly and shake his head at her naievety. She had almost decided it was too much trouble to go through with, and that the gorgeous Wil Wheatley probably had a wife, was gay, or had some other momentous baggage that would bring her nothing but trouble when the thought of her absent partner pushed her back in the opposite direction. Like a whirlwind, she breezed through the shop, collecting the ingredients she needed.

She was, for once, the last one home. Shelly was almost always there first, but Nikki usually ended up working late or going out for drinks or coffee with someone for the office. Shelly had made dinner - spaghetti made with fresh basil and oregano from Rita's greenhouse herb garden and a heavenly loaf of garlic bread lavished with sweet cream butter. Nikki provided the wine, and after they'd eaten and had a couple of glasses of wine, Rita found herself telling them about the bookshop and its magnetic owner. She brought out the book, and confessed, with a bit of a defiant blush, that she'd gathered together the ingredients to try out the spell.

"Oh, Rita, I don't know," Shelly said hesitantly as she stared down at the book with something akin to distaste. "Even if things like that DID work, wouldn't it just be cheating."

Nikki, who'd been all set to pooh-pooh the idea, immediately took the opposite stance. "There's nothing wrong with giving yourself a little edge. I say go for it -- if nothing else, there's a lot of power in positive thinking. Why the hell not? If you want to try it, Rita, count me in."

Shelly started to protest again, but Nikki's lips curved in a mocking, knowing smile. The look on her face said all too clearly that she considered Shelly a coward, and worse, someone who didn't have it in her to support the one person who'd been behind her one hundred percent. "I guess there's no harm in it, is there? Sure, Rita, I'll be glad to help. Just tell me what you want me to do."

Sometimes the only thing you can do is pick a spot and make your standsurvivalist/militia member introduces a small town girl with smarts and ambition to a new way of thinking

A Matter of Survival

Potter's Falls is a a tiny little town in northern Tennessee, so close to the Kentucky border that folks often didn't agree whose land fell on which side. If the economy hadn't been flatter than a pancake, the states themselves might have gone to court to figure it out, but as it was they just couldn't quite be bothered. The main 'cash crop' was moonshine, meth, marijuana and whatever bit of the tourist trade they could capture from folks on their way to Lexington, Nashville, or Memphis. The biggest point of curiosity was the local swimming hole that boasted a falls that had been photographed by a local photographer. His work got its requisite fifteen minutes of fame when he was killed in a particularly gory fashion by his lover in Chicago and was plastered all over the news. The second biggest curiosity was a militia group that had bought up and fenced in some of the county's best hunting and 'singing grounds, much to the irritation of some of the locals who had frequently trespassed for both.

Francine (Frankie) Lane had thought she was done with scraping by hand to mouth, depending on the weather and the rain whether she had enough to eat on whatever could be harvested from the small garden patch that everybody had, or whether she could afford winter shoes if enough of what was grown was sold at one of the roadside stands of weathered gray lumber so long-used that it looked more to her like stone than anything that ever had sap running through it. She'd gotten herself a scholarship, and with her father's blessing, had boarded a bus and not bothered looking back through the dust.

Now she was back, her degree in a frame on her bedroom wall, and working as 'manager' at the local motel that catered to those whose need to save a couple of dollars made them insist that the run-down dump was 'quaint'. Her father was dying, the big C. If that wasn't bad enough, her high-school 'sweetheart', who she had helped put away by testifying at his trial for murder, had been transferred to a nearby minimum security prison. Word had been anonymously delivered that he'd be by to see how Frankie was doing in a month or two when the opportunity presented itself to go over the fence.

Things just couldn't get any better.

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Looking for a survivalist / militia group leader who would be interested in building on the idea, and ultimately helping Frankie escape her past and perhaps find herself as well.

@}->-- @}->-- @}->-- HAUNTED (Erythrite) --<-{@ --<-{@ --<-{@

(click for details)

a woman looking for escape from a life of boredom and disapproval inherits a haunted Victorian houseand its resident ghost, a spirit who does not accept that death is the end to his hopes and dreams

Haunted

Constance Meriweather, 'Connie' to her friends, never met the aunt who left her the old Victorian style house on the outskirts of Charleston. She had married well, though to a man much older than herself, and when he passed on, she found herself with enough money to live comfortably and a desire to experience something new, away from the disapproving eyes of family and friends ... most of whom had sought her company because of her husband's status and money than any other reason.

Traveling south to see the house and decide what needed to be done to settle her aunt's estate was an acceptable reason, and Connie figured she didn't need to tell anyone that she had no plans to come back. A lawyer far away from the connections of her husband's, or her husband's family, would surely earn the fat fee for freeing up her affairs ... and the stodgy old fuss-budgets could look down their disapproving noses at her far enough away that she'd never have to see or hear their whispers ever again.

The house was magnificent, if a little run down, and Connie was giddy with her visions of freedom and a new life.

What her aunt's lawyers didn't mention was that her inheritance had some conditions of its own ... and that her aunt had been a spiritualist who actively attempted calling up spirits. If she'd just been a silly old lady who played pranks on the tourists, rapping on tables and fixing ghostly lights, people would have thought it quaint, or cute, or perhaps amusingly eccentric. She wasn't though ... the spirits that Margaret Thierney had conjured had been frightening, and very very real, all the more so because they didn't just tell the gullible what they wanted to hear. They often told people things that they didn't want to hear, and most of the people who walked into the old house a skeptic came out with white knuckles and shattered doubt.

What her aunt's lawyers also didn't mention was that the house itself had been the site of some rather scandalous, salacious happenings.

a sexy, humorous, potentially-fun filled romp with a setup for thievery, espionage, and the like

Accidental Cleavage (TheEmptyCell)

Naomi Fox had been 'well endowed' since Junior High. If anyone wanted to debate whether they were natural or not, she had pictures loaded right into her phone. Yes, they were completely natural, thank you very much. Look but don't touch, unless you've been invited. She enjoyed displaying her boobs, tastefully, of course, and shirts, dresses, blouses, and the like that displayed her assets accordingly were a staple of her closet.

Things that dropped had a way of ending up in that cleavage, which could be inconvenient in public. Earrings, a careless crumb, even a pen that she was holding in her teeth ... Sometimes it was fun, just to see the reaction, and Naomi did have a sense of humor.

Usually it was her own carelessness or momentary clumsiness that caused such an 'oops' moment, but this time, she just happened to be in the wrong place, and sleeping at the wrong time.

The thief had managed the theft quite handily, nicking the expensive diamond ring from his mark (perhaps even replacing it with a cheap replica if this was a matter of planning rather than casual opportunity) and was on his way back to his seat in coach when a passenger's restless child suddenly raced down the aisle toward the bathroom, forcing him to turn and sidestep awkwardly.

The ring, which he had palmed, slipped, and dropped, twisting in the air ... and landed right in cleavage of a well-endowed woman sleeping in the aisle seat. It lingered there just a moment before she frowned, shifted, sending the ring sliding from view.

Now all the thief has to do is get the ring back.

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Now I'm not envisioning a grope session on the airplane, or the bus, or the train, or whatever setting suits best. What I'd like is a story that includes sex, but doesn't consist solely of sex, and I'd like the 'loss' to be the start of the story rather than the sex.

Maybe it's not a ring. Maybe it's a micro-SD card. Maybe it's a tiny little key -- to a diary, to a box, to another world. The sky's the limit.

Maybe the man in question comes right out and tells her what happens and asks for it back, starting a little game of trade between them, a flirtation. Maybe he follows her and waits for the moment to steal into her room/house/whatever and get it back. Maybe he starts up a flirtation, and waits for the right opportunity. Maybe he ends up giving her a shot or a jolt of something and tries to get the item back, but is interrupted, leaving him with no choice but to take her along.

There are a lot of possibilities. The idea is just the setup, and one that I think could be comical, sexy, and fun with an imaginative partner who likes to get a little silly sometimes.

This is my old interest thread that contains plots that I am no longer seeking to play -- either because my interest is currently elsewhere, or the story is in progress, or has been sufficiently explored.